A Christmas Tree Tradition

“It’s scrawny on one side—hardly any branches at all,” Chloe announced, tilting her head at the little Engelmann spruce she’d found.

“That’s true,” her father Bob admitted, stepping closer. “But look how full it is on the other side. We’ll put the thin side against the wall, and no one will ever know the difference.”

“Aw…” sighed Chloe.

Not to be for that tree. So they trudged on.

Recently, our family had spread out across the evergreen mountain forest, each of us searching for “the perfect tree.” It’s a tradition we’ve kept for years—everyone wandering off in their own direction, calling out discoveries, evaluating shapes and flaws, and defending their choices with the enthusiasm that only a family ritual can inspire.

I’ve always been part of a “cut-your-own Christmas tree clan.” Growing up in the West and having access to private forest land has been a privilege and a highlight of every December. This year, as we’ve done for many years, we set out on my sister Joan’s mountain ranch. She and her husband, Cap, have generously welcomed all of us to continue the tradition on their property. Now, four families in Jane’s and my branch of the clan enjoy this annual ritual.

Our search always begins with a simple question: Where is my perfect tree?

Across the ranch, you’ll find Engelmann Spruce, Douglas-fir, and Lodgepole Pine—each with its own needles, personality, and imperfections.

Engelmann Spruce

Douglas Fir

Then comes the quest itself: Hilary, Bob, Chloe, Lily, John, Amie, Alex, Jane, and me—plus TJ and his cousin dogs—wandering through the forest, calling out choices for the perfect tree.

Picking a Christmas tree in the

Lodgepole Pine

mountains is a completely different experience from choosing one at a tree lot. The farm-grown trees are tidy, symmetrical, and uniform—perfection in rows. The wild trees we cut aren’t “perfect” by farm standards. They battle for sunlight, soil, moisture, and space in the rocky terrain of the Front Range. Their imperfections tell stories.

I’m partial to the long-needled Lodgepole Pine, especially if it still has a few cones clinging to the branches. My favorite trees are rarely “well-shaped.” They have character. Chloe, on the other hand, gravitates toward spruces that look closer to perfect—trees that resemble the nursery-grown versions.

When you’re surrounded by all this natural variety, you start to notice something important about people: most everybody has a different idea of what a perfect tree looks like. And the way each person chooses a tree reveals how they see the world.

I know my tree almost instantly. Jane sees harmony where I see possibility. She chooses with analysis; I choose with intuition. She moves through the forest with grace; I hobble along with curiosity.

After watching everyone’s selection process this year, it became clear again that I’m the outlier. No surprise there. I’ve long suspected that the same tendencies that shaped my real-estate career—seeing the world differently, being comfortable with gray rather than black-and-white—also show up in the forest.

Of course, this approach has sometimes created tension with people who prefer life—and their trees—to be more orderly. But I’m grateful for these differences.

They make life more challenging… and far more interesting.

Maybe someday my granddaughter Lily, the psychology major, will research this “Christmas Tree Personality Theory” and write a paper on why each of us chooses our tree—and what those choices quietly reveal about the way we see the world.